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The Fox Patrol 

in the 

North Woods 

by Cf L: Gilman 

Pictures by L. V. Mero 


PUBLISHED AT MINNEAPOLIS 
BY 

The Buzza Company 

Anno Domini 1912 



Copyright, 1912, by 

The Buzza Company 

Minneapolis 


SCLA312227 


/ 


To 

PATRICK CALLAHAN 


j4 hospitable friend and patient instructor in 
woodcraft — this book is dedicated by its author. 


THE FOREST . 


Broad-spread beneath the sky 
My deepest secrets lie , 

Open to wait the men 
T o whose fearless £en 
Plain is their meaning. 
Weakling and coward ne'er 
Can in my treasure share , 

Or read the secret word 
Bold on my free page scored , 
Though simple its seeming. 
Only the strong in heart — 

Of my stern life a part — 

Read all my hidden lore , 

Read all , to learn that more 
Waits for their gleaning. 
They as the years roll round 
Learn that my magic ground 
Ends not upon this side 
But o'er the Great Divide 
Stretches unending. 

C. L. C. 


FOREWORD. 


It would be untrue and unfair to promise to the scouts who 
read this yarn such adventures as befell the Fox Patrol, should 
they too follow scouting into the great north woods. 

But I can promise you there is such scope for the skill in 
woodcraft which you may learn by patient application to the 
game in the tamer vicinity of your own homes as will test it 
to the utmost. 

Firearms, I would remind you, have no place in the routine 
of scouting and if you learn, as I believe you should, to use 
them you must do so under the instruction of some experienced 
man. I may be criticised for placing guns in the hands of the 
Foxes, but to such critics I will say that this story is one of 
scouting under unusual circumstances and that the prime rule of 
the game is adaptability to changing conditions. 

As in a previous story, of scouting on the river, I have freely 
used the names of real persons and real places in this story of 
the woods. But the reader may be assured that only such 
characters as arouse his respect and excite his admiration are 
drawn from life and that , even then, my efforts have done 
scant justice to the fine character and keen wood-craft of the 
men of the little northern Minnesota community which is the 
scene of this story. 


C. L. Gilman. 


Minneapolis, October 16, 1911. 


The Fox Patrol in the 
North Woods 


i. 

OUTFITTING. 



’Y^HETHER he is the hunter about to set 
. off into the wilderness after big game, 
the explorer resolved to push beyond the 
limit of known land to write his name 
across the map of a new country, or 
simply the traveler bent on seeing for 
himself the wonders described by others, 
there is one perfect period in the calendar 
of the man who travels relying solely 
upon his own resources. 

It is the time of preparation. 

The actual encounter with nature is 
full of little trials and hardships and the 
after recollection of the struggle too 
often marred by thoughts of what might 


have been better done. 

But none of these spoil the time when anticipation is roused 
to its brightest glow by the actual selection and preparation of 
the things to be taken and the still more important problem of 
the things to be left. 

Fox patrol was engaged in the joyful occupation known as 
“outfitting.” 

It was about to invade the big north woods, to know for the 
first time that civilization was so far behind that the woodcraft 
perfected in nearly a year of scouting meant existence itself. 


10 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


It’s one thing to engage in a mock struggle with the woods 
for food, fire and shelter, knowing all the time that half-an- 
hour’s walking, at the most, will bring you to a hospitable farm 
house where all these may be had for the asking, and another 
to play the game out facing the full penalty of defeat. 

All this was the result of the day when the Foxes, under 
Con Colville’s leadership, had outwitted the entire Ojibway 
troop and gotten away on a raft for an exploring trip down the 
river, the day when Tenderfoot Ole Sorensen had won admis- 
sion to the patrol. 

It was through Ole, or rather Ole’s uncle, that Fox patrol 
had found the trail to the big woods cleared for them. De- 
lighted at Ole’s recital of the adventures of Fox patrol and 
pleased at its cordial reception of his nephew and namesake. 
Ole Sorensen, the elder had delivered himself of this invita- 
tion: 

“You, Ole, shall tell that patrol to come up to my lumber 
camp on the Elbow River and have a venison dinner for 
Thanksgiving. I guess you will find some room for scouting be- 
tween there and Lake Vermillion. There are pa’tridges and 
rabbits enough for you all and maybe some of you are such 
good scouts you will catch a deer.’’ 

This was only the beginning. 

There were parents to be consulted for permission to make 
the long journey, first by rail and then by trail, to where Uncle 
Ole managed a small logging camp as a sub-contractor in a re- 
mote and almost overlooked backwater left by the northward 
surge of settlement and civilization. Consent did not come 
easily from all. But the fact that a stout log cabin instead of 
tents would furnish shelter from the November snow and cold 
and the promise of Scoutmaster Marcus Peters to join the pa- 
trol, for a time at least, finally overcame the most reluctant 
mother and timid father. 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. I 1 

Then there were school matters to settle. Saukville gave 
only Thanksgiving and the day following as a vacation. The 
Foxes wished the entire week and three days of the next. 

So it happened that when the work of preparation was most 
pressing, precious hours had to be taken from it to prepare in 
advance the school lessons for the six extra days, a task ren- 
dered possible only by a finely worked out system of co-opera- 
tion in which each member of the patrol coached the rest on 
the subject in which he was most proficient. 

Then, too, there was the money problem to solve. Thanks 
to rigid collection and careful spending of patrol dues the 
Foxes’ treasury was far from low and all the devices which in- 
genuity could suggest and industry execute had been used to 
fill it further. Taking contracts for raking and burning autumn 
leaves at a flat price for the job and then rushing them through 
by the combined efforts of the entire seven, so that four or five 
lawns were cleaned up in a day, netted well. Acting as guides, 
packers and cooks for fall picnic parties of grown-ups whose 
outdoor education had been neglected was another specialty. 
Plain work and lots of it sufficed for the rest. 

So that when at last everything was ready, the Foxes had 
the satisfaction of knowing that they had earned the pleasure to 
come. 

But apart from all this work was the pleasure summed up in 
the word “outfitting.” 

If they were to face the woods in winter their armor must 
present no weak places or gaping joints and their weapons must 
be sharp and tested. 

So there was grinding of hatchets and setting of new handles. 
Ripped hatchet scabbards were sewed up with waxed thread 
and the rawhide lacings holding them against slipping on the 
belt were inspected and renewed. 


12 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


The means of preparing fuel thus assured, fire 
to light it became the next consideration. Water- 
proof match boxes could be purchased, but money 
was too hard to get to be so spent. It was Eddie 
Austin who found in his father’s hunting kit a for- 
gotten box of old fashioned brass 12-gauge shot 
gun shells and Red Nichols’ elder brother who 
procured corks to fit them, from the drug store where he worked. 
This combination was waterproof, and, unlike the bottles first 
suggested, unlikely to be damaged by a fall. As a further pre- 
caution the patrol spent an entire evening sorting out the “fat- 
test” matches from a dozen boxes and dipping them, head and 
all, in melted parafine as a further protection against damp. 
These were for an emergency, for all ordinary purposes a sup- 
ply carried loose in the pocket would serve. 

Clothing was the subject of many an anxious consultation 
with men who had experience and more councils in which moth- 
ers had a deciding vote. The khaki scout uniform might be 
all right for summer but woolen, they heard on every hand, 
was the only stuff for winter work in the woods. 

So there was hunting out of old but stout woolen trousers, 
which were cut off just above the ankle-bone, ripped to the 
knee, resewn so they fitted smoothly around the leg below the 
calf and provided with buttons to close the six-inch slit left at 
the bottom of the outer side of each leg so that they could be 
drawn on easily. 

Moccasins, fine when the weather is steadily cold, were pro- 
nounced unsuited for a season when a thaw might follow a 
snowstorm and instead, heavy rubbers with ten-inch leather 
tops were adopted, in sizes large enough to permit the wearing 
of three pairs of heavy wool sox. 

In the choice of coats, the gay blanket or “Mackinaw,” long 
a standard with woodsmen came first, but those of the patrol 



The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. \3 

who could not afford them did well with cast-off winter coats 
of fathers, of big brothers, a little shortened in the sleeves, but 
otherwise unchanged to leave room for heavy flannel shirts and 
sweaters. 

Woolen underwear, as a matter of course, with extra shirts 
and drawers to be added in case of extra cold, completed a 
simple and practical costume. 

In only one particular did the troop carry out the idea of 
uniform. Every scout wore, as should every person venturing 
into the woods in the hunting season, a cap of crimson flannel 
furnished with tabs to tie over the ears in cold or storm. The 
flash of this bright color among the colder colors of nature gives 
the lurking rifleman fair warning that the moving object he sees 
can by no possibility be a deer — is at once a protection to the 
wearer and a courtesy to the hunter who must at best spend 
many straining, anxious moments making sure that what he sees 
dimly through the underbrush is the game he seeks. 

What is briefly recounted here was a matter of many weeks 
to the scouts of the Fox patrol — pleasant weeks and weeks 
made profitable by conferences with woodsmen and hunters 
from whom they gained many useful hints regarding their com- 
fort and safety in the woods. 

So the da^s passed swiftly to the time when, farewells said, 
the fortunate seven climbed aboard the train which was to bear 
them northward to their great adventure. 


FINDING AN OLD FRIEND. 


“Here, kitty, kitty,” called Phil Saunders and the dapper 
little maltese so addressed trotted daintily through the snow 
into the camp of the Fox patrol, tail up and back arched for 
the petting she confidently expected — and not in vain. 

Bleak granite hills, spread with snow and covered with a 
tangle of fire-blackened pines and underbrush, surrounded the 
meadow beside which burned the breakfast fire of the Foxes. 
A lean-to shelter of balsam boughs shielding a bed of same 
material from the northwest wind showed where the patrol had 
passed the night after the sled track which they had mistaken 
for the road had “petered out” beside the pole platforms which 
showed where a couple of stacks of wild marsh hay had once 
been. • 

Neither the Foxes nor the good natured backwoodsman who 
had given them directions for the first stage of their hike to 
“Uncle Ole’s” camp had known that Steve Green, whose farm 
was their first objective point, had driven down from the north 
the day before to haul in the hay, cut and stacked in the late 
summer. So, correctly following the instruction to take the 
“first turn to the right” they had tramped a good three miles 
off their course on a blind trail. 

It was just plain hard luck, so, making the best of it, they 
had taken it as they found it and passed a not uncomfortable 
14 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


15 


night with their slanting shelter reflecting back the heat of a 
heaped up camp fire upon them as they lay wrapped to the 
eyes in their blankets. 

But now, stiff from stepping high through the snow and a 
little pack sore, they debated the best way to retrieve their mis- 
take and make up for lost time. Over a spread-out map the 
question had been argued with considerable heat. Con Col- 
ville, patrol leader, stood out stoutly for retracing their course 
to the main road while a strong faction, headed by the always 
headlong Reddy Nichols, insisted that since they knew the 
main road ran northeast and that they also knew they had come 
straight southeast from it they had only to strike straight north 
to find it again. 

“Three miles north is shorter than six miles around,” was 
the contention of Reddy and his followers. 

“Six miles around, and sure you get there, beats three miles 
north and probably miss it,” was the opposing argument. 

It was just here that the cat accepted Phil’s invitation, walked 
in and furnished a new subject for discussion. 

“Fat and sassy,” said Charlie McGregor, “somebody’s darl- 
ing, too. See her spoon with Phil.” 

“House can’t be far away,” suggested Ole. “Don’t think 
any little cats are living out in the woods this time of year. 
She’s probably just out hunting. Where do you live, pussy?” 

“Pst-sst,” said their visitor and, clearing the camp fire 
with a single bound, ran up to a safe perch in the branches 
of a spruce while a small yellow dog with pointed nose and 
bushy tail danced and yelped around its base. 

“Down, Scout, down. Shut up. That’s no way to treat 
company — and she a lady. 

These and similar remonstrances had no effect upon the 
excited pup who did everything but talk and climb in his 


16 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 



effort to express and carry out his intention to take that cat 
and turn her inside out. 

Perhaps because his dignity 
was offended because he had not 
been asked to sit in at the patrol 
council or perhaps because the 
woods were full of sights and 
sounds and smells which appealed 
to his half wild instincts, the pa- 
trol mascot — hauled snarling out 
of a den on the island where the 
troop had made its summer camp 
and fondly believed to be the son 
of a renegade collie and the old 
dog fox who levied toll on the 
chicken roosts of a township — had 
been away scouting on his own 
account when their visitor had 
come into camp. 

He was back now, and an- 
nouncing to the listening world 
that he and he alone was the 
mascot of Fox patrol and no 
others need apply. 

Scout’s vocal outbursts were 
too common a thing to hold 
the attention of his comrades 
long — like many other good 
speakers he robbed an other- 
wise impressive gift of oratory of its force by speaking too 
much and too often. 

“If that cat lives at home,” said Tom Coleman thoughtfully, 
“it’s mighty certain she don’t live far from here. It isn’t likely 


17 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

that she stays out nights and probably she was let out of the 
house only a little while ago. They say these northwoods 
homesteaders aren’t such early risers and anyhow, it’s only 
been light an hour.” 

“If there’s a house around here they may be able to tell us 
a short cut and anyhow they’ll have a track out to the main 
road,” said Eddie Austin. “If they have, I want to use it. 
This world’s so big there aint any use wasting time seeing any 
of it twice and I’ve seen enough of that measly hay track we 
came in on.” 

“Well, then, why don’t you back-track that cat?” suggested 
Con. 

And accordingly Eddie began unraveling the trail by which 
pussy came into camp. With hardly a turn it ran up the ridge 
back of the camp — evidently pussy had had designs on the 
field mice whose tracks were thick around the sites of the for- 
mer hay stacks. Eddie scrambled up, keeping his line of cat 
tracks in sight but being careful not to step in them and thus 
render the tracing of the trail more difficult if it showed a sud- 
den break. 

Suddenly he stopped, every nerve a-tingle. 

Right across his way lay a line of heart-shaped hoof prints. 

Only on the pictured margin of a “nature book” had Eddie 
seen that mark before, but now he found it on the great white 
page of Nature herself, he knew it with a thrill. 

The trail of a deer. 

Startled, he looked in the direction indicated by the dainty, 
pointed prints, half expecting to see their maker. 

Had he but known, a touch with his bare finger would have 
read in the icey crust at the bottom, the fact that they must 
have been made in the afternoon, when the sun had warmed the 
snow on this southwestern slope to the packing point. 


18 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


But even the sight of his first deer track should not hold 
back a scout on the trail. It did not hold Eddie, though the 
thrill of it was never forgotten or surpassed, even in later years, 
when he viewed through the sights of his rifle the deer’s giant 
cousin, the moose. 

A panting scramble brought him to the top of the ridge 
and ended the necessity to further tracing the trail of the cat. 
Seen clearly through the brilliant air of a frosty morning in the 
northwoods was a long, low log cabin, its stove-pipe chimney 
wreathed in smoke. 

“Cabin quarter of a mile north,’’ he called, singing his 
words so they carried clear and clean through the still air. 
“Going clear and easy. Bring on my stuff.’’ 

Blankets rolled and packs slung the Foxes came on, fol- 
lowed by Scout, who raced back occasionally to see that that 
cat was still keeping her proper place up the tree. 

Crowning the ridge they saw with laughing chagrin that 
they had made their laborious night camp almost within sight 
of a sheltering roof. 

Con carefully kicked himself. 

“And even the books know enough to tell you to get up 
high and take a look around,’’ he said. 

Eddie’s “easy going’’ proved to be a stiff wallow through 
snow, drifted deep over low brush and tall grass — going 
which made every scout glad that the leather tops of his 
rubbers were laced tight around the bottom of his cutdown 
trousers to keep the snow out. 

Plodding in single file they reached the cabin door where 
Con Colville rapped. 

“Fer the love av Mike, if it isn’t young freckle face, the 
raft builder,’’ was his greeting. 

“Him and his gang. And I thought when I called it 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 19 

my last drive and quit the river to settle down to a peaceful 
owld age that I was shut of the last of yees. 

“Come on in an’, welcome. 

“Shed yer coats, rest yer feet an’ tell it to Paddy-the-Bird 
where ye wint to with them logs he loaned ye last summer.’’ 



PADDY-THE-BIRD 





III. 


BY THE SQUIRREL’S ROAD. 

When the Fox patrol had first met Pat Callahan — Paddy- 
the-Bird, as he preferred to call himself in pride of a title won 
by his skill in springing from log to log when the “drive” was 
passing through the perilous “white water” of the rapids on its 
way from the woods to the saw mills — it had considered the 
encounter the hardest of hard luck. He and his crew of river- 
men had come to take from them the logs they had lashed into 
a raft to aid their escape from the scouts of their own troop 
turned out to test their scoutcraft by barring their way down 
the river which ran past Saukville. 

But, like good scouts, they had met old Hard Luck in the 
person of Paddy-the-Bird boldly and cheerfully, and now the 
enemy they had made a friend on the river in June was prov- 
ing personified good luck to them in the November woods. It’s 
a way hard luck has. 

Inside his cabin they felt as much in the woods as when 
sleeping out under their shelter of boughs. It’s the way the 
woods have of marking for their own everything and every- 
body that goes into them. Its unpainted log walls, chinked 
with clay ; the cracked and red hot stove which made them shed 
layer after layer of their garments; the tent and paddles stowed 
above the rafters; the string of traps hanging on the wall; the 
long, rust-browned rifle on its pegs in easy reach of the tumbled 
bed; the very smell of cooking, steaming clothing and pine 
smoke all spoke of the real woods for which they sought. 

Almost half a year had to be talked out between them and 
their host. He wanted to know how their adventure on the 
river had terminated and in turn told how he had finished his 
21 


22 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


work on the drive and hurried back to this lonely cabin which 
he called home. 

He and his cat lived there alone, except when chance pass- 
ers, like the Foxes, stopped to find a hospitality of that fine 
character which places the house and everything in it, including 
the owner, at the service of the guest — a king’s hospitality can 
be no greater. 

There came a scratching and mewing at the door and Paddy 
rose to let in “Peter,” the cat who had guided the Foxes to 
this refuge. 

The next moment there was a flurry of squalls and snarls 
which ended with Scout in hiding behind the pork barrel and 
Peter mistress of the cabin. On her own ground the little cat 
would not stand for any foolishness from any dog. 

“Lives in the woods, surest thing you 
know,” said their host. “Shifts for herself 
all summer when I am away and always 
turns up fat and cheerful when the snow 
begins to fly. Cats, why cats is the only 
^tame animal which can live in the woods. 
They kin catch all the mice and pa’tridges 
and squirrels and rabbits they need and 
when wolves or foxes threaten them they just shin up a tree. 

“Dog can’t make it. Wolves ’ll get him sure as shootin’. 
That pup of yours now, he’ll have a pack of them after him 
inside a week and they’ll come right into your camp to get 
him.” 

Now there is only one thing in this world finer than the loy- 
alty of a dog to his man and that is the loyalty of the right 
sort of man, or boy, to his dog. It spoke in Reddy Nichols’ 
answer to this : 

“Well, if any wolves come pestering around after Scout 
they’d better look out, or we’ll bite ’em.” 



The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


23 


He didn’t know then that he would be called on to make 
good the boast before he saw Saukville again. 

But Con Colville cut short the discussion. The patrol was 
already behind its schedule. Some speeding up would be nec- 
essary if it were to arrive at “Uncle” Ole’s camp at the ap- 
pointed time. The directions had been simple. Hike from the 
station to the Green farm at the Elbow River, sleep in the barn 
there over night and then proceed up-stream, northwest, on the 
ice until the camp was reached. 

“Plenty easy,” said Paddy of this difficulty. “Just cut 
across country from here. This is nearer Ole Sorensen’s camp 
than Green’s farm.” 

Then, before anyone could express a doubt as to their ability 
to find their way through the tangle of woods, hills and swamps 
he pulled on a faded Mackinaw coat, slung an empty pack- 
sack, took down his rifle and started toward the door with a 
“come on boys.” 

Nothing loath to follow so experienced a guide the Foxes 
hustled into their clothes and followed. 

By high ridges he led them, each ridge running down to a 
half frozen swamp through which they wallowed to a similar 
ridge beyond. 

When they were in the swamps they sighed to be back on 
the ridges and on the ridges they wished they were in the 
swamps. In the swamps their guide’s long legs splashed cheer- 
fully through and on the ridges he trotted lightly along the top 
logs of a tangle of down timber, leading them by a route which 
only a born log runner, or a squirrel, would have chosen. 

With many a tumble from their lofty path to the snow be- 
neath the Foxes followed, laughing at their own mishaps and 
bathed in sweat from their own exertions though it was so cold 
that their steaming garments stiffened if they stopped to rest. 

The dog Scout had all he could do to follow and no time at 


24 The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

all for the side excursions to which his curious nose tempted 
him. 

Even Paddy’s skill failed him and he took a header, gun 
and all. 

Finally they struck standing timber and followed the faint 
suggestion of a trail up one ridge and down another. 

“Look at the collie,’’ exclaimed Mat Gilmor, crowning a 
ridge close behind their guide in time to see a tawny shape 
bounding across a little swale to the woods beyond. 

The next instant Paddy’s rifle began talking and the snow to 
fly up in spurts just to the right of the fleeing creature. 

It was a deer, but so much smaller than Mat had pictured it 
to himself that he was deceived for a moment by its color and 
motion. 

Plainly untouched it vanished into the woods and Paddy 
stood looking after it with disgust. 

“Three easy shots and every one a miss,’’ he complained. 

“They all went to the right,’’ said Mat, who knew some- 
thing of shooting. “Let’s see your rifle.’’ 

It took but a glance to see that the front sight had been 
knocked a trifle to the left in its owner’s fall, only a little, but 
enough to keep that deer from becoming venison. 

A halt for lunch, a long, strong pull across a plateau and 
the patrol saw before them the broad expanse of Elbow Lake 
and, to their left, Elbow River with the dark blotch of the log- 
ging shanty beyond it. 

To cross the river on the ice and race to the door of the 
shanty took little time. 

They knocked and called and finally pushed open the un- 
locked door. 

The shanty was untenanted, the stove cold and thick ice in 
the tea kettle showed that its owner had been gone some time. 


IV. 


STRANGE FOOTPRINTS. 

“Something is wrong,” said Ole Sorensen. 

“My uncle would not ask company and then not be here 
to meet them. Something has happened to him.” 

“Maybe he has gotten worried because we are late and gone 
down the river to meet us,” suggested Tom Coleman. “Let’s 
look for tracks.” 

Sure enough a rush to the river showed the imprint of rub- 
ber shod feet pressed into the snow which covered the ice. 

But closer inspection showed two sets of tracks, one pointing 
down river and the other returning. 

The trampled snow about the shanty told nothing. 

“Circle and find a track going out,” said Con. “Wait, too 
many trackers will blur the trail. Ole, you run about 500 
yards down stream and then climb the bluff and look along the 
top of it until you are opposite this shanty. Eddie, do the same 
up-stream.” 

“The rest of you fellows get busy and start a fire in the stove. 
We might as well be warm while we are waiting.” 

The trailers had already dropped their packs and started 
out. 

Ready hands soon had a fire of split pine blazing in the 
stove until Paddy said: 

“Howlin’ cats, see her steam, she’ll be down to the station 
in five minutes.” 

Ole hailed from the top of the steep bluff directly back of 
the cabin and then came in to report that no out-trail, in fact, 
25 


26 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


no human footprints, crossed his half of the semi-circle being 
drawn around the landward side of the camp. 

He was worried about his uncle, firmly convinced that only 
a serious mishap could have prevented his being there to wel- 
come his guests. 

Still better versed in the way of the woods, their friend 
Paddy was even more troubled regarding the owner of the 
camp. Running on a small scale. Ole Sorensen had put off 
employing a crew until the last possible moment. The swamps, 
across which his logs must be hauled when cut, were not yet 
frozen solid and he had come out alone to do the work of pre- 
paring for the winter’s operations. 

And to be alone in the woods in winter is no safe thing for 
any man, however strong and skillful. A slip and a fall on a 




27 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

steep hillside may leave the strongest helpless in the cold and 
snow with a broken leg. Even a sprained ankle, painful but 
not dangerous when a man is among his fellows, may cripple 
him so far from camp that cold may overcome him before he 
can limp to its shelter — the cold and the wolves stand always 
ready to give the finishing stroke when the wilderness has dis- 
abled the man who dares to pit himself against it. 

Red Nichols put an end to all doubt that “Uncle” Ole was 
somewhere inland from his camp. He reported that he had 
found a deep ravine extending inland from the river across his 
path and in working through it had struck the trail of a man — 
going out. 

Beside these fresh footprints were others, partially filled with 
snow, coming in. 

After pressing on to where he picked up Ole’s trail as it 
turned in toward the cabin without seeing other tracks, he had 
returned to the trail in the ravine and traced it back to the 
trampled area. 

Every scout was keen to start off on this track at once, but 
more than one felt his ardor dampen when he rose from his 
seat near the fire and felt his stiffened muscles cramp and com- 
plain. 

“Not wan of you,” said their guide, “stirs from here. I’ll 
take up the track myself and the sun is getting low. Maybe 
I’ll be gone ’till after dark and anyhow I’m goin’ to travel 
like a moose, which is more than any of you kin after the 
tramp you’ve made.” 

There was objection to this, strong from Ole, who feared 
that his uncle might be lying hurt somewhere in the grim twi- 
light of the woods and need to be carried in. 

“That’s all right,” said Paddy. “Stay where you are and 
make home bright and happy. Your Uncle Ole and I will 
be needin’ a hot supper when we get in and if I need your help 


28 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


I’ll fire the distress call — wan shot by its lonesome and then two 
quick shots after it.” 

He was gone into the fast gathering twilight and the Foxes 
were left to explore for the first time a remote lumber shanty. 

The room they were in was evidently reserved for cooking 
and eating as the stove, the table with its long benches and the 
stacked provisions indicated. There were those backwoods 
staples : pork, tea, coffee, rice, sugar, flour, salt, baking powder, 
and molasses. There were also such luxuries as breakfast food, 
raisins, canned milk, butterine, bacon, oat-meal, hardtack, 
and cocoa, evidently laid in for their entertainment. 

The dishes were washed and set away in order, an indica- 
tion that the owner of the cabin had departed at his leisure. 

The packsack, market basket of the woods, was crumpled in 
a comer, which showed that no trip to town had been con- 
templated. On nails driven into the log wall rested a cheap 
single-barreled shot gun and a first-class .22-caliber repeating 
rifle. Two heavier nails, lower down, showed that a third 
and probably more powerful weapon was away, presumably 
with its owner. 

So much the Foxes read from the room in which they were 
gathered. 

Lighting a lamp, they entered the room beyond, really one 
end of the long shanty walled off with a partition of rough 
boards. Here they found a heating stove with a pile of split 
wood ready beside it and, on either side of the room, four bunks, 
arranged “double-decker,” like the berths in a sleeping car and 
filled with fresh marsh hay. 

Out in the ravine, where night had almost established its 
sway two men, both more nervous than they would have cared 
to confess, acknowledged each other’s sudden appearance on 
the trail by throwing their rifles forward. Then came recog- 
nition. 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 29 

“Hello, Sorensen, company waiting for you at your house,” 
said one. 

“It looks wrong to me, Paddy,” said the other. 

“What’s wrong, isn’t it your own nephew and the gang 
that calls themselves the Fox patrol,” said Paddy. 

“It is not that,” said Sorensen, leaning on the long old-fash- 
ioned army Springfield with which he was armed. “Two days 
ago I shot a deer to give those boys the venison I promised 
them. It was late and I let it lie over beside Bass creek. This 
morning early I went out to drag it in and I find someone has 
cut away and carried off all the meat, leaving me just the head 
and hide. That is not the way of honest men in the woods.” 

“Maybe it was someone up against it for grub,” said Paddy. 
“Did you look for a note or something.” 

“There was no note and no sign.” 

“From the tracks four or five men had worked around the 
carcass and the tracks were those of men wearing shoes. What 
man around here wears anything but moccasins or shoe-packs 
or ‘gold seals’ this season?” 

“Maybe it was some dude hunters, they wear these water- 
proof boots that come up to the knees and only stop the water 
that’s inside and wanting to get out,” suggested Paddy. 

“They were no hunters,” was the reply, “for though they 
stood and even sat around there is not the print of a single 
rifle stock in the snow. 

“I have been following their trail all day. If I could have 
caught up they should have turned around and carried that 
meat back to my shanty. But they are headed northeast, into 
the Bass Lake country.” 

To the men talking the suggestion was sinister enough. Set- 
tlers and hunters were the only men who would naturally be 
in the woods this season. Both classes carried guns and most 


30 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


of them did not wear heeled footgear. The Bass Lake country 
was remote, unsettled and devoid of game. 

“Well, anyhow, say nothing to the boys about it,” was 
Paddy’s suggestion. “Just tell them that you’ve been on the 
trail of a deer — which is part of the truth anyhow — and it took 
you farther than you expected.’’ 


V. 


“I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS LOADED.” 

“I’d as soon have my boy grow up without learning to read 
and write as without learning to handle a gun safely and shoot 
it straight,” said Eddie Austin’s father wrathfully to Thomas 
Coleman, Senior, and Mr. Harry McGregor nodded approv- 
ingly though he laid, at the same time, a restraining hand upon 
the shoulder of the thoroughly angered Mr. Austin. 

This declaration was made some time before the Fox patrol 
left Saukville — while the question of its going into the woods 
at all was still being debated. As scouts, of course, the Foxes 
had never carried firearms but, with the exception of Tom Cole- 
man, there was not a member of the patrol who had not learned 
to use a light rifle long before scouting returned from England 
to sweep clean across the United States. 

While none of the boys’ parents were willing that the patrol 
should go into the woods fully armed — for when the number 
of guns in one party is raised above two the danger increases in 
geometric proportion — all but Mr. Coleman fully approved of 
letting Con Colville take the .25-caliber squirrel rifle of which 
he was an unquestioned master and Eddie Austin to carry the 
light shot gun which he had learned to use under the strict eye 
of that doughty duck hunter, his father. 

But Mr. Coleman had stood out against it. Guns were dan- 
gerous and : 

“My boy shall never learn to use one of the things,” he de- 
clared, “If folks never learned to use guns then there would be 
no accidents with them.” 


31 


32 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


And nothing, not even the arguments of grown and experi- 
enced men could shake him from his resolve that if a single gun 
were allowed in the party his son should not accompany the 
Foxes. 

So it was Tom Coleman, casting about for amusement when 
the morning’s chores had been done, who took possession of 
the little .22 which hung on the shanty wall. 

And, as is the usual impulse of people who know nothing 
about firearms, his first act was to level it at his companions and 
bid them throw up their hands. 

The next instant the rifle cracked, sending its bullet through 
the roof toward which its muzzle had been directed in the nick 
of time while Tom, propelled by the angry arm of “Uncle” 
Ole, staggered against a bench upon which he sat down limp 
and white-faced to nurse a trigger finger sprained and skinned 
by the wrench with which the rifle had been twisted in his 
hands. 

For a full minute he sat trembling under the cold wrath in 
the big lumberman’s blue eyes. He could not stand it, his 
mind sought some justification, some excuse. 

“I didn’t know it was loaded,” he faltered. 

Then the storm burst. 

“That’s what every such murderer says.” 

“Ay tal yu,” went on his accuser, lapsing in his rage from 
his usual careful English to the accent of his native tongue, 
“every gun bane loaded and yu ant got business to point it to 
anybody yu ant mean to keel. Yu ant bane man enough tu 
keel anybody. 

“Yu bane young fool.” 

Tom Coleman was not the boy to submit tamely to such 
censure; even if wrong he was ready to defend himself to the 
end. 

“Huh,” he pretended to laugh, “don’t you suppose I knew 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 33 

what I was about. Nobody but a coward would be afraid of 
a little gun like that, ’taint big enough to hurt anybody.” 

Mr. Sorensen heard this with a smile of contempt but kept 
silent, breathing deeply to control his anger. He ejected the 
empty cartridge, and pumped in another from the magazine. 
As he hung up the gun he spoke to the Foxes in general: 

“Boys, all the guns in this shanty, in most woods shanties, 
are always loaded. You never can tell when you may want 
them in a hurry. I have shot many pa’tridges right in this 
clearing, from the door of this shack and once a deer which 
came down to the water’s edge just across the river.” 

Then he turned to Tom. 

“That little rifle,” he said, “has killed a buck which weighed 
twice as much as you do.” 

Tom began to gather up his belongings and cram them into 
his pack sack. 

“I’m going home,” he said and went out, slamming the door 
behind him. 


VI. 

“KIDS IN A POSSE.” 


Burning with anger, anger all the more red hot because deep 
in his heart he knew every word of censure directed against 
him was true and deserved, Tom Coleman reached the river’s 
edge. 

Should he make his way back to the station by the trail over 
which Paddy-the-Bird had piloted them the day before, or 
should he take the untried way down the river to the Green 
farm. The smooth expanse of snow-covered ice looked invit- 
ing in comparison to his memory of yesterday’s scramble up 
and down hill, through thickets, swamps and charred down 
timber. 

Without looking back toward the cabin he set off full speed 
down river. 

Tom’s temper kept his head high and he did not notice the 
black water-soaked snow which gave fair warning of an air 
hole in the ice. The chill water striking through his heavy 
woolen clothing to his heated skin startled a yell of dismay 
from his lips. 

One leg was through to the knee and the ice was crackling 
beneath his other foot. 

Must he perish here alone 
in the white indifference of 
the wilderness? 

The ice around him gave 
way and he went down. 

Went down to find him- 
self standing in mid-thigh 
deep on firm bottom. The 
Elbow River is deep only in spots, and this was not one of the 
spots. 



34 


35 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

But getting out was slower work than getting in. Where- 
ever Tom tried to climb out on the ice, there the ice gave way, 
enlarging the hole but not bringing him any nearer freedom. 
His legs were rapidly growing numb from immersion in the ice 
cold water and, to add to the gloom if not the danger of the 
situation the leaden sky was suddenly hidden by a thick fall of 
snow. 

Con Colville, whose real leadership of the patrol was based 
as much upon a keen insight to human nature as to his personal 
prowess in scout-craft, had checked those who started to follow 
Tom and coax him back when he slammed out of the shanty. 

“Let him have his sulk out,” he said. “Tom will come back 
when he gets ready and not before. A little walking will do 
him good. He’ll forget that he’s been mad, but I bet he’ll 
never forget that it isn’t good manners to point guns at folks.” 

This sounded like common sense to the rest of the Foxes, 
who knew Tom’s disposition to herd by himself when his feel- 
ings were ruffled. 

“He’s safe enough, so long as he stays on the river,” said Mr. 
Callahan, who was pulling on extra sox preparatory to getting 
into his moccasins and tramping back to his cabin. 

This move had been decided upon during a short conference 
with Mr. Sorensen. Thanksgiving was due the next day and 
the promised venison dinner must be secured a second time, 
since the mysterious booted but gunless strangers had made off 
with all of the first supply. Besides, onions are an essential 
ingredient to such a feast and Paddy had a sack of them at his 
cabin. He could hunt and go after them at the same time. 

“Well, boys,” continued Paddy, “I’m off and since our boy 
gun fighter has taken the river way I’ll just trail him down to 
see that he don’t stray off into the woods. So long.” 

So help was approaching Tom Coleman, though it is a ques- 
tion whether it would have reached him before he had suffered 


36 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


a serious chill from the cold water. It was a severe test of the 
redness of his blood and the rapidity of its circulation. 

Already he had settled down to fight his way out with the 
cool judgment which usually marked his actions. Unslinging 
his pack, he sent it skimming to a place of safety on firm ice. 
Then he began breaking his way to the nearest shore, deter- 
mined to keep going until he struck ice strong enough to bear 
him up or could crawl out on land. 

“Well, young feller, takin’ a bath,” sneered a man who 
emerged from the thick brush of the shore toward which he 
was fighting and stood, a strange figure in his soiled and torn 
overcoat and dented derby hat, watching Tom’s struggles. 

“I’m not so stuck on it that I’d get sore if you cut a pole and 
pulled me out,” replied Tom. 

The stranger did as directed, using the hatchet which Tom 
tossed to him, and soon the latter stood shivering as his soaked 
trousers stiffened in the cold wind. 

“I’m one of a party of boy scouts,” he explained in reply to 
a question. “We’re making our headquarters at Sorensen’s 
lumber camp. He’s with us and our scoutmaster will be along 
out tonight.” 



The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 37 

“Gee, think of kids in a posse,” muttered the stranger, then 
aloud, “You say the sheriff’s coming this way tonight?” 

“I didn’t say anything about a sheriff,” said Tom, “Our 
scoutmaster should get into camp by eleven tonight if he comes 
through as he said he would. He generally does.” 

“And you kids are scouting around for him, eh?” was the 
next question. “Sort of gettin’ hep to what’s on and how the 
land lays?” 

A rifle cracked just around the bend and the stranger jumped 
and thrust his hand into his overcoat pocket, then withdrew it — 
empty. 

He looked hard at Tom, took a step forward and then 
dashed into the dense swamp at a run. 

Paddy-the-Bird was rounding the bend, his long rifle across 
his left arm and a rabbit, its head blown off by a bullet built 
for bigger game, dangling in his right hand. 


VII. 


SCOUT SUGGESTS. 

Yawning ’till his appetite would have been 
plainly visible to a spectator, had there been 
one, a very bewildered little dog climbed out of 
the bunk in which he had spent the night with 
Red Nichols and Eddie Austin. 

Scout’s doggy mind still held a dim recollec- 
tion of a day spent in dragging himself through 
snow drifts while his comrades hurried on ahead, high up on 
fallen logs above the drifted snow which denied a firm bottom 
to his legs. He had a hazy memory of dropping down before 
a stove, too tired to touch the food set before him — this must 
surely have been part of a bad dream for never in all his young 
life had the mascot of the Fox patrol voluntarily passed up a 
chance to eat — and of friendly arms which gathered him up 
and carried him to some soft, warm place — undoubtedly the 
nest between the tumbled blankets which his discriminating nose 
told him belonged to Red and Eddie. 

He was in a strange place, lately tenanted, or his nose was 
badly at fault, by the Fox patrol, the man who harbored that 
impertinent cat and end stranger. He was alone, but not neg- 
lected, as the heaped pan of table scraps beside the stove at- 
tested. 

Having placed that pan, to the eye at least, beyond the need 
of washing. Scout went to the door and demanded that it be 
opened immediately. 



38 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 39 

His imperious barks brought no response, neither did his 
most pleading whines. 

Fox patrol, gathered around “Uncle” Ole, who was show- 
ing them how to swing an ax and fell a tall pine in the desired 
direction a quarter of a mile inland, could not hear Scout’s 
complaint. 

But Scout was a self-helpful little dog and soon his thirty- 
one pounds of eagerness was dashing against the door in suc- 
cessive leaps and slowly forcing it open. 

So it was that the Foxes, their first lesson in tree felling 
over, heard Scout yapping excitedly in the depths of the 
swampy ravine to the east of the cabin as they reached the bluff 
back of it. 

“Sounds as if Scout had gotten out and gotten into trouble,” 
said Eddie. 

“He’s making a noise like chasing a cat up a tree,” said 
Red, “his trouble yelp has more squeak in it.” 

“Maybe it’s a wild cat,” suggested Mat Gilmor, whose 
imagination stocked the woods beyond his vision with enough 
wild creatures to furnish a zoo. 

“You boys wait here,” said Mr. Sorensen, “we need the 
pa’tri’ge that dog has treed.” 

Instantly there was a clamor from the scouts who looked 
upon the shooting of a treed partridge — to Mr. Sorensen or any 
other woodsman as ordinary a matter as decapitating a hen — 
as a great feat of hunting indeed and desired unanimously to 
be in at the death. 

Con Colville — born hunter, whose inherited instinct for the 
game was as unerring as that of a well-bred setter pup and as 
overwhelming as that which curses those born with a desire for 
strong drink — said nothing, but it was his eyes, burning with 
eagerness which caught Mr. Sorensen’s as he turned to the 
scouts behind him. 


40 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


“Run on ahead. Con,” he said, and made a friend of the 
boy for life, “take the shotgun and one of the yellow shells on 
the shelf next to the coffee mill and bring him in.” 

But Con did not stir. The sportsman in him revolted at the 
sure thing proposition. “Can’t I take the little rifle,’’ he said. 

“Sure you can,’’ was the answer, “but mind you, sneak up 
to fifteen paces and draw a fine bead.” 

Con’s way was the harder but the more sportsmanlike. The 
man who kills for meat alone may be excused if he takes every 
possible advantage which will render bringing down his game 
more certain, but the only excuse of the man who hunts for 
pleasure is in leaving so much to his skill that even after the 
game is gotten in view — the hardest part of hunting — it still 
has at least an even break for life. 

Giving Con a fair start, the rest of the Foxes, with Mr. Sor- 
ensen, drew in to the shanty and stood listening to Scout’s ex- 
cited yelps as he danced about a tree somewhere in the swamp, 
from which the game surveyed him with calm disdain. 

“Phut, phut — phut,” the little rifle spoke in the distance and 
Scout’s barking rose in an ecstasy of excited triumph. 

Soon he came racing into camp and Con followed him with 
three plump brown birds — each one shot through the head. 

As they gathered about to praise Con’s marksmanship and 
admire the addition to their stock of provisions, the report of a 
heavy rifle came ringing down the western wind. 

“Paddy has shot at something down the river,” was Mr. 
Sorensen’s verdict. “About a mile and a half down to judge 
by the sound.” 

It was the shot which at once killed the rabbit and scared 
Tom’s strange rescuer into the swamp. 

Assured that Paddy would fire the “distress call” if he 
needed assistance to bring in his game — which the boys firmly 
believed could be nothing less than a deer — the Foxes hurried 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


41 


into the shanty, away from the snow which was now falling in 
a thick sheet — taking Scout with them. 

Dressing the game which Con and Scout had secured and 
preparing a dinner to fit their hearty appetites kept their hands 
busy while their minds and their tongues ran on the experiences 
of the morning and speculations as to whether or not Paddy 
had come up with Tom Coleman. 

Scout lay beside the fire, very still and thoughtful. Who can 
say that his brain was not busy over his newfound usefulness, 
gradually working out the idea that when big, brown birds of 
a certain smell flew into trees, it was his duty to stay and bark 
at them until one of his comrades came and shot them out of it. 

So it was that Tom’s ragged acquaintance of the air hole 
was able to pass along the top of the bluff back of the cabin at 
a lunging run, unnoticed. 

The stranger had tangled his tracks with the trail of the 
Foxes and noticed with satisfaction that the drifting snow of 
the highland had already nearly obscured most of it and would 
soon do as much for his own tracks. 

He was on his way to inform a gang, shivering and gnawing 
unsalted venison in an abandoned Indian “brush camp’’ on 
the desolate shore of Bass Lake, that a gang of “boy detec- 
tives” was at large in the woods collecting information for a 
“sheriff” who would come up the river that night. 



VIII. 


WATCHERS BY THE TRAIL. 

Paddy’s long rifle flashed to his shoulder and then settled 
steadily upon a little clearing across which Tom’s tough cus- 
tomer must pass to reach high ground. Its front sight had been 
tapped back into place and the fugitive ran along the crumbling 
brink of doom as Paddy’s aim followed his stumbling run. 

Then the rifle came down. The man was a stranger who 
had done no harm to the boy. Merely running away was 
no great offense though it did indicate a guilty conscience. In- 
stead of shooting, Paddy started to head him off. 

Six strides, and the lanky Irishman was mired to the knees 
in the half-flooded hay marsh which bordered the river at 
that place. He gave it up and turned to Tom Coleman. 

The boy was in need of attention. 

Shaking like a leaf in every part of his body, his teeth chat- 
tering so that he could give no intelligible account of what had 
happened, the next five minutes might fasten upon him a seri- 
ous sickness. 

“Pick up yer pack an’ run, lad,’’ said Paddy. 

Tom did as bid, but his forgotten determination to leave 
camp and go home still governed his direction. When Paddy 
was done with his cautious inspection of the scene of the acci- 
dent, Tom was already well on down river. 

Considering movement in one direction as good as in an- 
other, provided it were violent enough, Paddy shouldered his 
rifle and set off after Tom with a swinging stride which soon 
brought them abreast. 


42 


43 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

“Step off in my tracks, lad,” 
he said as he surged past, “and 
let’ s see if ye are walker enough 
to keep me in sight.” 

It was a challenge to no light 
contest. With every step 
Tom’s feet sank through the 
feathery snow which covered 
the river into an inch or more 
of slush, caused by the swamp water which at that point over- 
flowed the ice. Then the going changed to a wind-swept glare 
surface and he slipped with every step. His heavy pack made 
the slightest loss of equilibrium the occasion for a fall. His 
breath came so fast and short it seemed to cut his nostrils. He 
wanted to sit down and give it up. 

Then, to his surprise, he felt a warm glow overcome the 
chill which racked him. Looking down he saw his trousers, 
stiff as stove-pipes save where they creased and crackled at 
his knees. 

“One beauty of getting wet in cold weather,” said Paddy, 
who had halted to let him catch up, and, if the truth be told, 
to recover his own breath. “When your trousers freeze they 
keep out the wind and are warmer than before they got wet.” 

This may seem strange to the uninitiated but is a fact never- 
theless. 

Paddy invited Tom to his cabin and the invitation was ac- 
cepted. 

The subject of Tom’s disgrace and his determination to go 
home was completely ignored. It was forgotten by the time 
they had left the river and turned into a trail leading to 
Paddy’s cabin and when the sun came out they were discus- 
sing the best route for their return to Mr. Sorensen’s camp. 

Paddy said nothing, but thought much, about Tom’s sus- 



44 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


picious assistant. The woods, he knew, sheltered a good many 
men to whom the idea of a sheriff was obnoxious and who saw 
a pursuer in every stranger. Usually they were mere skulkers 
from a wife and family they were too lazy to support or vio- 
lators of the game laws who deemed it best to lay low for a 
while. 

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred Paddy would have been 
right in assuming that the man who fled at his approach was 
nobody’s enemy but his own. But this was the hundredth 
time. 

He and Tom were peacefully snoring when Scoutmaster 
Marcus Peters passed within eye shot of their unlighted cabin 
that night, on his way to Mr. Sorensen’s camp. 

Scoutmaster Peters had a deep and righteous hatred of 
strong drink — which was just and proper, of course. 

Unfortunately he let it lead his usually just and kindly mind 
into a pronounced aversion to all men who used it. 

That is why he struck off into the woods the instant he 
alighted from the train, instead of mixing for half an hour with 
the people of the little settlement of Faber which clustered 
around the station. 

There had been heavy drinking among the lumber jacks 
and deer hunters on the train, which disgusted him. Around 
the saloon, which was the building nearest the station, there 
was a rough-looking crowd, some of whom were plainly the 
worse for liquor. 

So instead of turning into the settlement, where five minutes 
with the sober crowd in Billy Green’s general store, would 
have given him some information of vital importance, he swung 
off on the main traveled road which pierced the woods to the 
east. 

One red-capped man more or less among the dozen or so 
red-capped, red-coated hunters who left the train was hardly 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


45 


noticed and by the time he had slung his pack the gang of 
loafers had followed the new comers into the bar room, leaving 
no one to witness his departure. 

Secure in the possession of a map and compass, Scoutmaster 
Peters viewed his quest for Sorensen’s camp as a pleasant di- 
version. Two hours of sunlight were left and the clear sky 
which followed the noon snow storm promised brilliant moon- 
light. 

Four hours later, Mr. Peters, refreshed by a supper cooked 
in the twilight woods and rejoicing in as wire-strung a pair of 
legs as ever grew on a man, paused to drink in the pure beauty 
of the winter woods by moonlight. 

Before him stretched a long, clear reach of the Elbow River, 
a road of diamonds. On either hand the woods loomed, a 
mystery of black and silver. From far ahead came the mur- 
mur of water where the river ran in rapids through a narrow 
gorge. 

Black against his background of pure white, he was plainly 
visible to those who waited and watched for him beside the 
dark and crooked trail worn by those who portaged around 
the rapids when the summer opened the wilderness to canoe 
travel. 







IX. 


A DEER HUNT. 

The clear weather which greeted the arrival of Scoutmaster 
Peters aroused Mr. Sorensen to activity. 

Venison he had promised the Foxes for their Thanksgiving 
dinner and venison they should have if skillful hunting and 
straight shooting would get it. 

Sunlight would bring the deer out of the dense thickets in 
which they harbored from the storm. Late afternoon was 
their feeding time in any case, and he hoped that the oppor- 
tunity to sun himself after the cold hours of lying down would 
tempi some buck into showing himself in the open. 

As he made ready he explained to the eager boys the nature 
and the use of the long army rifle which he preferred to more 
modern repeaters. Army service in Norway had taught him 
many things about the use of a rifle which the average back- 
woods hunter never guesses. He liked his old-fashioned gun 
because its military sights allowed him to make scientific ad- 
justments for long range shots and for the influence of the wind 
upon the bullet, while its heavy .45-caliber slug would deliver 
a knock-down blow at ranges at which the lighter .30-caliber 
of the average hunter was an uncertain killer. 

In all this he found a wrapt and intelligent listener in 
Con Colville. Con’s display of marksmanship in bagging the 
partridges had impressed him favorably, still more was he 
pleased at the business-like skill with which Con had set about 
cleaning the little rifle after his exploit. 

47 


48 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


By a sudden impulse he turned to Con and asked him to 
come along with him while he took a look for meat. 

Had any other of the Foxes been so honored jealousy would 
have been aroused at once, but the appropriateness of Mr. 
Sorensen’s choice silenced criticism. The shotgun was as- 
signed to Eddie Austin, who produced from an inner pocket 
a written permission from his father to shoot any gun which 
he might be able to borrow, coupled with the admonition to 
keep cool, not shoot till he knew what he was shooting at and 
then to take steady aim and press, not jerk, the trigger. Ole, 
as under his uncle’s guardianship, was given the little rifle. 
Both were instructed to keep together and hunt the further 
side of the river for rabbits, not going out of sight of the cabin. 

The rest of the patrol were to content themselves with set- 
ting snares on the rabbit paths which ran every which way 
through the brush around the shanty. 

These arrangements made, Mr. Sorensen set out, with Con 
stepping proudly in his wake. Hardly were they out of sight 
of the cabin before their pace dwindled to a crawl. Each step 
was a study in silence. A foot once safely planted, the weight 
was kept upon it until the other, by cautious experiment, had 
found a place where it might be set down without a sound. 
Branches which hung across their path were avoided, or lifted 
cautiously aside. There were frequent halts to look and listen. 

Con lost all sense of direction and of time. Once they stole 
in breathless silence to the clearing round an abandoned cabin 
to find it empty, yet the tracks of three deer, not a half hour 
old, went to the very door of the house. 

“If we could only have gotten here first and been hiding 
inside,’’ sighed Con. 

He was dimly aware that they were making a long circuit. 

For twenty throbbing minutes — they seemed an hour — he 
stood looking down into a ravine, the long rifle clutched in 


49 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

his hands, praying that he might by some luck score a hit if 
“Uncle” Ole should drive a deer out of the tangled swamp 
through which he was crashing, with that intent. 

Suddenly Mr. Sorensen whistled from the opposite ridge. 
Then he called loudly for Con to come to him. The simple 
words sounded like profanity as they shattered the tense silence 
of an hour. 

“No use, deer have moved west, I guess,” said Mr. Sorensen, 
as Con surrendered the rifle into his hand. “This is the ravine 
which runs into the river just above the shanty. We might as 
well follow it.” 

So, all thought of caution abandoned, they went toward 
camp. Let the brush crackle, they did not care. Mr. Soren- 
sen discoursed on the uncertain habits of deer. 

“Sometimes,” he said, “they’ll stick to one patch of woods 
and you can’t scare them away. Other times they will move 
without any apparent reason at all and not stop until they are 
in the next township.” 

They crossed the ravine and scrambled up the steep bank, 
sending many small boulders crashing down behind them. 
At the top they paused for breath. 

“Do you ever get a clear shot at a deer across a draw like 
this,” asked Con. 

“There’s one now,” was the answer. 

At first Con could not believe but that his companion was 
joking. 

“I don’t see anything but boulders across there,” he said. 

“All those boulders have snow on top of them — except 
one,” was the answer. 

Sure enough, with this hint to guide him. Con made out a 
deer — it looked as big as a horse — standing broadside to them, 
seemingly oblivious to their presence, though they had traveled 
noisily and even then spoke in their natural voices. 


50 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

Some experts say that deer are given to day dreams, stand- 
ing in the sun. Perhaps this is so. If it is, it accounts for the 
conduct of this deer. 

Mr. Sorensen made a rapid calculation of the distance. 
Then he raised the long leaf of his sight and adjusting it, 
handed the rifle to Con. 

“Kneel down, rest the rifle across that log,” he said. “Aim 
through the little peep-hole. Hold the front sight just under 
his body and just back of his fore leg. Take a long breath. 
Hold it. Squeze the trigger slow and steady.” 

Mechanically, as in a dream. Con obeyed each direction as 
it was given. 

Eight pounds was the pressure given that trigger at the 
government arsenal. It semed to Con as if he was hauling in 
a long line with a ton weight at the end of it as he slowly 
pressed it off. 

Then, when he had gained a bit, his hands would tremble 
and his sights leave the deer. Deperately holding what he 
had gained on the trigger he would take another deep breath 
and start the slow squeezing again. 

“Suppose he should run before I get it off,” was his deadly 
fear. 

Hardly could he restrain the impulse to give one wild jerk 
and end the suspense. 

Suddenly the old gun roared, vomiting its lead into the 
twlight in a flare of black powder flame. 

Through the cloud of smoke Con had a vision of his buck 
making a mighty bound. 

The next instant he was picking himself out of the drift into 
which the kick of the gun threw him, his eyes full of hot tears 
of humiliation because he had missed. 

“Come on,” yelled his companion, and dashed headlong 
down the bluff. 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


51 


How he followed. Con never knew. 

He only remembers that when his eyes cleared the great 
buck lay still in the snow before him. 

The heavy slug had hit it squarely in the heart and that 
mighty bound had been its death-spasm. 


X. 


A CALL FOR HELP. 

“Yep, shot old Hank Johnston dead when he came into 
the store to see what the racket was about, and him in his 
nightshirt and carryin’ a lamp, and not a weapon on him. 

“Blew open the safe and got $37.22 in postoffice money 
an’ $13.27 worth of postage stamps. Then, when folks came 
a runnin’, they stood off the hull village with their pistols an’ 
made a dash fer the handcar they run into town on. 

“But Jim King, he wus too much fer ’em. Jest lay out 
behind his wood pile and pumped lead every time they showed 
themselves in the clearin’ ’long side the track. Then the rest 
of the men got their guns and the gang seen the game was too 
strong fer ’em and put fer the woods. 

“Nobody had much clothes on, so they wan’t followed. Jim 
he got one an’ from the blood sign on their trail it ’pears an- 
other was some creased.” 

It was a not uncommon tragedy of the remote north settle- 
ments which Mr. Sorensen heard recounted in the general store 
at Faber at noon of Thanskigiving day. The descent of a gang 
of “yeggmen” upon the lonely settlement, the looting of the 
postoffice safe and the shooting of such citizens as dared to 
interfere was an old story — only this time the bandits had 
struck further north than usual and found a community better 
able to resist them in the village of Nettleton, hardly ten miles 
north of Faber. 

It was a story which sent Mr. Sorensen back on the road to 
his camp, pack abandoned and legs swinging in the tireless dog 
trot with which the seasoned woods runner eats up the miles. 
52 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


53 


The robbery had been pulled off Monday night, the night be- 
fore the Foxes reached his shanty. The yeggmen had fled 
eastward into the woods. They had but six miles to traverse 
to reach the, spot where he had left the deer so mysteriously 
stolen and fear would give them the speed of the hunted. 

This might account for the mysterious presence of booted 
but gunless strangers — yeggmen use the revolver, not the rifle, 
on their raids. It might also account for the failure of Scout- 
master Peters to arrive the night before, as he had promised. 

Fear for the safety of the boys left in his care added speed 
to the legs of the hardy lumberman. 

Meanwhile the Foxes, 
left at camp, were well on 
their way to the Bass 
Lake region in which the 
gang of criminals were 
hiding. 

On their return from 
killing the deer the night 
before Mr. Sorensen and 
Con found that an Indian, 
on his way to his trapping 
grounds south of Elbow 
Lake, had stopped at the 
cabin, leaving mail. The 
silent O jibway was about 
the only man in the region 
who would not have 
stopped to gossip about the 
robbery at Nettleton. 

One letter concerning Mr. Sorensen’s logging contract de- 
manded that he make immediate reply and with many apolo- 
gies he had taken the overland short-cut to the settlement at 



54 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

day-break, and, in his haste, had not even turned in at Mr. 
Callahan’s cabin. 

Thus he missed reading the story of a desperate struggle 
written in the snow at the portage. 

Left to themselves, the Foxes prepared to fetch in the car- 
cass of the deer killed the night before. They discussed then 
propriety of taking with them the shot gun and little rifle and 
finally decided that as all their parents, with the exception of 
Mr. Coleman, had been perfectly willing that Eddie and Con 
should carry guns it was proper to take those arms along, since 
Tom was not with them. 

Moving the heavy carcass proved no easy job, particularly 
as it had to be carried down a steep bluff and up another to 
reach the easy-going on the west side of the ravine. The direct 
route was altogether too hard, so the whole patrol went scout- 
ing up the draw for a place where it could be crossed more 
easily. 

And at the top of its west bank, hardly five hundred yards 
north of where the deer lay, they struck a strange trail. 

Three men in boots and one in rubbers had left the record 
of their passage in the soft snow. 

The Foxes had already caught the spirit of the north woods 
where the trampled snow is read as eagerly as the city man 
scans his morning newspaper. Each member of the patrol 
was keen to add some detail undetected by the rest. 

“Rubbers is wearing new shoes,’’ said Phil. “See how 
sharply the checking on the bottom is cut into the snow.’’ 

“Same pattern checking as ours,’’ exclaimed Con. “And 
ours are different from those they sell up around here.” 

“The others are wearing just ordinary street shoes. That’s 
a funny stunt for the woods this time of year,” was Mat Gil- 
mor’s comment. “Rubbers is walking ahead, see, boots has 
stepped in his tracks.” 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 55 

“Rubbers must be a poor walker,” was Red’s comment. 
“Look, where he tripped and fell down.” 

Ole had said nothing so far, but now he stepped carefully 
around the packed snow where “rubbers” had not only fallen 
down, but rolled over. 

“Well,” he said, “I guess you would fall down yourself in 
such rough going if your hands were tied behind your back.” 

There was no denying this startling declaration. There, 
printed plainly in the snow was the impression of a man’s back. 

And it showed that his wrists were tied together behind 
him. 

A little further on the snow was kicked up where “rubbers” 
had struggled to his feet without the assistance of his arms. 

The three booted strangers were driving a prisoner in rub- 
bers before them. 



Here was a story of adventure more exciting than any the 
Foxes had ever read in books — a story which might have passed 
unnoticed had they not patiently acquired the art of reading 
tracks, the oldest alphabet in the world. 

Heads down, eyes intent on the trail, they hurried on, de- 
termined to learn more of these three men who drove a fourth 
before them. 

“Here’s where they stopped for rest,” called Charlie Mc- 
Gregor, who had forged ahead. “See, they smoked and 












57 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


stamped their feet to keep them warm. Here are burnt matches 
and ashes from a pipe.” 

“One of them rolled a cigaret over here,” callied Eddie 
Austin. 

Con stepped aside to study the tracks left by the prisoner. 

“Fellows,” his voice broke with excitement, “their prisoner 
is Mr. Peters. 

“He’s left a call for help.” 

Con pointed to a trampled patch of snow. 

In apparently aimless stamping to and fro the prisoner had 
outlined in the snow the totem of the patrol — a fox’s head. 

“I thought that track with the right foot straight and the left 
toed in looked natural. 

“Boys, they’ve got Old Marcus and it’s up to us to get him 
back.” 


XI. 


UNDER FIRE. 

Seized from behind as he was intent on keeping his footing 
on the rough portage trail in the darkness, Marcus Peters had 
put up a glittering fight. Twice he got his feet under him 
and once struggled to his knees. His bony fists had made sad 
havoc with the faces of his three assailants but a kick in the 
stomach had knocked the wind out of him before he could call 
for help — had help been within call — and his right arm had 
been wrenched in the deadly hammer-lock when he strove 
to reach his only weapon, the hunting knife worn on his belt, 
wood’s fashion — in the middle of the back. 

Bound and gagged, he had been marched through the moon- 
lit woods by captors who prodded him in the back with the 
muzzles of their pistols and swore they had rather shoot a 
sheriff than eat. 

But though his body was mastered for the time, his courage 
was unbroken and his brain was busy with schemes to escape 
or summon help as he plodded on. 

Seven times he contrived to fall and roll so as to leave the 
imprint of his bound hands without exciting the suspicion of 
his captors, who regarded his mishaps as a huge joke, and 
twice he had taken advantage of a halt for breath to tramp 
out the fox totem. 

Now, lying bound in the outlaws’ camp he still plotted es- 
cape. The gag had been removed and his captors were more 
than half convinced that his statement that he was not a sheriff 
or deputy and had not been on their trail was true. A search of 
58 


59 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

his person had shown that he neither wore a star nor carried a 
gun — certainly pretty positive proof that he was not an officer 
of the law, seeking to apprehend armed and desperate mur- 
derers. 

The three ruffians who had overpowered him were busy 
with clumsy attempts to cook venison and make camp more 
comfortable. Their every motion showed that they were not 
woodsmen. A fourth lay moaning upon the blankets looted 
from Mr. Peter’s pack, his jaw bound up with a bloody hand- 
kerchief. 

“I know a little about first aid,” said Mr. Peters. ‘‘There’s 
a little package of medicine and bandages in my pack and if 
you will set my hands free I can possibly make your sick friend 
more comfortable.” 

While a man stood 
over him with a cocked re- 
volver, ready to shoot at 
the first move to escape, 

Mr. Peters set about his 
strange work of mercy. 

Cutting away the stiffened 
bandage he found the 
man’s lower jaw horribly 
shattered. The wound 
could only have been the 
work of a bullet. 

To set the shattered bone was beyond Mr. Peters’ skill. 
But he could allay the inflammation which caused the wounded 
man intense agony. To wash the wound with warm water, 
tinctured with carbolic acid from the first aid kit, to apply anti- 
septic gauze at the points of the bullet’s entrance and exit and 
to tie up the hole so that the weight of the broken bone should 
no longer tear at the mangled flesh was all he could do. But 




60 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


this he did with a deftness which drew words of approbation 
from the thugs around him. 

And this much he had gained for himself — his hands were 
left free. 

While Mr. Peters passed the long hours a prisoner under 
the cheering assurance that he would be shot at the first sign 
of an attempt to escape or the first effort of friends to rescue 
him, the Foxes were pressing forward on his trail. 

It was slow work. Knowing the care with which pursued 
creatures watched their back track, they dared not follow in 
the broken trail. They strove to parallel it, with frequent 
circling to make sure they were in touch with it. Sometimes it 
took a sudden curve and they had to spend half an hour hunt- 
ing for it. 

Their map showed them they were following Bass Creek to 
its source in Bass Lake. 

It led them into a forest of giant pines, whose towering 
trunks rose from a smooth white floor free of brushwood. 
Once the little stream broke into rapids and they halted while 
Con and Eddie, guns advanced, made a long circuit to flank 
a natural fort of rocks at the head of the pass, took it in the rear 
and signalled them to come on. 

The long trail began to wear down their strength. Even 
Scout was content to trudge soberly along instead of tugging 
wildly at the cord which tied him to Red Nichols’ belt. 

The trail swerved sharply to the right and led them through 
a swamp to a “hog back” ridge. Blown on the north wind a 
puff of wood smoke greeted their nostrils. To leave the trail, 
to crawl belly down over the ridge, to be brought to an abrupt 
halt by the ceasing of the balsam thicket which clothed its 
northern exposure was work done almost mechanically. 

In front of them lay an open swale, some four hundred 
yards wide, its uncut crop of wild hay bending before the wind. 


61 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

Beyond the swale lay a point of land covered with a mixed 
growth of spruce and pine and beyond this clump of trees Bass 
Lake stretched, cold and white, under its carpet of snow. 

And clear across the swale they could see a rough camp, a 
mere shelter of boughs and bark about which dark figures 
moved. With the field glasses carried by Charles McGregor 
they could make out the figure of their scoutmaster, capless 
but apparently unbound. 

Mr. Peters, though rejoicing in the liberation of his hands, 
was careful not to call attention to it. Instead he sat with 
them lying passive in his lap, his eyes intent upon the point 
where the trail by which he had come ran back into the forest. 
The trees were bending before the wind and their branches 
tossed to and fro. 

Something out of tune with the harmony of motion caught 
his eye. It was a dead, brown branch of balsam. True it 
swayed but it did not sway like the others. It would swing 
to the right, swing half way back and stop. Then swing to 
the left. Unconsciously he noted it — left, right, right, pause, 
right, left— 21 1—12— re. 

Then he spelled off “We’re here,’’ repeated time and again. 

Next it said, “Make a run — Make a run — make a run.’’ 

Not he, he might break away from his captors but he would 
not bring the pursuit of those armed ruffians against defenseless 
boys. He’d stick to the limit before he would involve them 
in his peril. 

Again the twitching message: “Got guns — got — ” 

Crash — Marcus Peters’ good right arm shot out, catching an 
unsuspecting yeggman on the jaw. His long legs uncoiled like 
released springs. A kick sent the ashes and embers of the 
camp fire full in the face of the man sitting opposite him, ren- 
dering him blind and helpless. 


62 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


No time to deal with the third well man. The sick one 
was out of it. 

Away he sped across the swale, the long grass entangling his 
feet at every stride. A volley of revolver shots tore up the 
snow around him as he ran. He heard the pounding of pur- 
suing feet. 

Thirty yards to gain and he would be in the shelter of the 
woods with a weapon in his hand. He stumbled and fell. 
With a yell of triumph his foremost pursuer pressed forward. 

As he strove to rise, a gun spoke in a deeper tone than the 
popping pistols behind him and a charge of shot sang over his 
head to patter harmlessly around his nearest enemy. 

A lunge, a stagger and he was in the woods, reaching out 
for the little rifle which Con Colville thrust toward him. 

There was no need to use it. 

Twenty yards more would bring the yeggmen within effect- 
ive shotgun range, and they had not the nerve to charge 
home in the face of the whistling pellets, which though they 
may not take a man’s life will hardly spare his eyesight. 

The leader of the pursuit fairly fell over himself in his 
hurry to get further away. Hie man who had felt the scout- 
master’s fist came up to join him. 

Safe beyond the shotgun’s range, he raised his long, heavy 
revolver. He proposed to rake the woods with bullets from 
a safe distance. 

But the little rifle spoke first. 

As if struck from his hand, the revolver flew back over the 
yegg’s shoulder. He clapped his left hand to his right fore- 
arm, where the little bullet has found its mark, and ran after 
his companion toward their camp. 

The brush crackled behind the Foxes and they wheeled to 
see two men with rifles charging down upon them. 


XII. 


THE ROUND-UP. 

With shouts of recognition and relief, “Uncle” Ole and 
Paddy-the-Bird rushed toward them. One look, half a dozen 
words, made them aware of the situation. 

Running under cover of the woods they took stations far 
to the right and left of the wooded point, whence they com- 
manded not only the swale and the outlaws’ camp, but also 
the open ice behind it. 

Settling down prone in the snow Mr. Sorensen twisted the 
sling strap of his long rifle around his left arm to get a steadier 
hold, measured the distance with an eye well trained to such 
work, tossed up a pinch of light snow to test the wind, set his 
sights and began work. 

Only when the best riflemen of the country gather to decide 
the annual championship could the performance which fol- 
lowed have been equaled. 

His first bullet struck the snow from the top of a stump to 
the left of the hut where the yeggmen huddled. With the 
next he ruined Mr. Peters’ two quart pail, which still hung over 
the robbers’ fire. 

Before he could load for a third shot, one outlaw burst from 
the bushes onto the lake, only to dash back again as a bullet 
from Paddy’s .32 special kicked up the snow in front of him. 
The yeggmen, with their short range weapons, were complete- 
ly at the mercy of the men with rifles. It took but one more 
shot, plumped into the remnant of their camp fire, to convince 
them that their plight was hopeless. 

63 


64 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 


Very stiffly and slowly three men stepped out into the swale, 
their hands as high above their heads as their arms would 
reach. 

Hours later, a long and weary line filed out upon the moon- 
lit Elbow River. The Foxes were done up. The wounded 
yeggman had to be carried in a woods-made stretcher over 
three miles of dark and stumbly trail. The three well bandits, 
their hands bound behind them and unable to use them for 
support, fell frequently and cursed freely each time at the 



thought of how their prisoner of the night before had turned 
this same hardship against them. Mr. Sorensen and Paddy, 
exhausted by a run which still stands unequaled, walked in 
their sleep. Poor little Scout snored wearily as he traveled 
in Red Nichols’ arms. 

But there was light burning and company waiting at the 
shanty when they reached it. A sheriff and posse, brought on 
by Tom Coleman, had halted there, declining to press pursuit 
in the darkness. But they were ready enough to take over 
the four prisoners. 

Tom Coleman slept, all in from a forced march back to the 
station to get help — a suggestion made by Paddy when Mr. 
Sorenson trotted to the door of his cabin to find he and Tom 
leisurely making ready to start back to the camp. 


65 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

How Tom had met the sheriff and his men on the road, 
headed north, and persuaded them to come northeast on the 
river, mighty unconvinced until they reached the scene of Mr. 
Peters’ capture on the portage and found there his red cap 
trampled into the snow, was a story as full of dash and pluck 
as the exploit of the rest of the patrol. 

“Boys,” said Mr. Peters, in a speech following Thanks- 
giving dinner, eaten late Friday night. “Such adventures as 
we have had together are by-products, mere by-products. 

“They aren’t real life, and they aren’t real scouting. 

“Mind I don’t mean that you haven’t met the dangers and 
excitements of the past three days in a mighty fine way. 

“Now they are safely over. I’m glad they happened. Such 
things are thrown our way once in a while to test us to see if 
we are true metal. 

“I’m glad to say you boys have proven pure steel. 

“But things like this can hurt you a whole lot if you get to 
laying around between times waiting for them to happen and 
let your metal rust. 

“It’s the simple following of every day scouting which fitted 
you for these emergencies and just so it’s the simple living of 
every day life, and living it right, which fits a man to master 
the troubles and the trials and the temptations which come to 
him only once in a while. 


66 The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

“You’ve all had your fun and excitement and glory. Now 
don’t spoil it by knocking off work waiting for another chance 
to be heroes. If you do, you won’t be able to make good when 
the test comes. 

“Tomorrow we will start to work again on simple wood- 
craft and try to learn a few of the secrets of the great book 
of nature open before us.” 

And they did. 

The three remaining days of the Fox patrol in the big north- 
woods were unmarked by any blood-curdling excitement. 

They retraced the trails they had made, adding many de- 
tails to the map they brought with them. Con and Scout de- 
voted themselves to the study of partridge hunting with such 
good effect that Paddy-the-Bird pronounced Scout the most 
perfect “pa’tri’ge pup” he had ever seen and offered the patrol 
a combination rifle and shotgun, five steel traps, a moose hide 
and $3.50 for him — to meet with a polite but firm refusal. 

Time flew. The woods on every hand were full of wonders 
to their observant eyes and yet always just beyond their vision 
were mysteries unfathomed — never to be fathomed, though 
the desire to learn more where they despaired of ever learning 
all, drew them back year after year. 

Tom Coleman’s fair-minded manhood asserted itself and he 
thanked Mr. Sorensen for the lesson taught him his first morn- 
ing in camp, a lesson which fitted him to receive a most sur- 
prising Christmas gift from his father — a well made, finely 
sighted rifle. 

It cannot be denied that the Foxes boarded the train which 
was to bear them back to the work-a-day world with pleased 
anticipations of the interest and envy the story of their woods 
exploits would excite among the stay-at-home members of the 
O jibway troop. 

But once at home they found the last and the greatest gift the 


67 


The Fox Patrol in the North Woods. 

woods had given them — the gift of silence. Their bigness and 
calm had taught them, all unknowing, the littleness of what 
they had learned and what they had done. 

So it was, that when they spoke at all of their adventures 
in the silent places it was briefly and humbly. 


THE END. 


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